Nightmare Scenario
by Dizzo
Summary: A mystrious disaster en-route to a far flung hunt tests Dean to the very edge of his physical and psychological limits; but is this all down to fate? Winchester luck? Or are there darker forces at work?  Slight non-specific spoilers for season 5 later on.
1. Chapter 1

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

A mystrious disaster en-route to a far flung hunt tests Dean to the very edge of his physical and psychological limits; but is this all down to fate? Winchester luck? Or are there darker forces at work?

Later on in the story there will be slight, non-specific spoilers for various season 5 goings-on.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, and on the evidence of this story, they're probably very glad I don't!

xxxxx

Chapter 1

Unfocussed green eyes fluttered open. Still woozy from an uncomfortable, fitful nap, Dean arched into a cramped stretch, knuckling his eyes and yawning widely. He ached miserably; every joint, every limb felt stiff and heavy; his stomach was in knots.

The irritating buzz of an engine skewered his head; the reedy whine vibrating through his whole body setting his teeth on edge. His churning stomach and the two crumpled plastic puke bags under his seat served as a depressing reminder of where he was.

He shifted in his seat and sighed, just for one moment; one beautiful, sleep-muzzed moment; he thought he was in his baby, but no. That pathetic, stupid sound could never come from his baby's engine. She roared; the roar of a mighty black panther prowling the highways; and she purred, a delicious soothing sound, rich as chocolate, that was reserved just for him and Sammy.

This? This pile of crap sounded like a bee in a bucket. That pitiful, tinny buzz could only come from a prop engine; it would have been laughable if it didn't signify the totally douchey fact that he was stuck about two thousand feet above the ground in this flying scrapheap that, quite frankly, looked like it was held together with thumb tacks and rubber bands.

Stealing a timid glance out of one of the windows, Dean shrunk back; screwing his eyes closed and pressing himself as far back into his seat as he could, he gripped his seatbelt with all his white-knuckled might. This wasn't even one of those big airliners where you could get an aisle seat well away from the windows or have little blinds that you could pull down to shut out the appalling reality of your position. This stupid, crappy bit of junk was no bigger than Bobby's pickup. It had four friggin' seats including the one where the pilot sat. Wherever you were, you had freaking rattling – yes, rattling – glass only inches from your face so you can't damn-well miss how far you've got to plummet when it all goes ass-upwards.

Dean cringed, gasping through gritted teeth, as a passing gust buffeted the small aircraft; jeez, a freakin' head-on with a moth would total this crappy thing.

He felt his guts lurch again; oh great, here comes yesterday's taco ….

Fumbling for one of the plastic bags Sam had been thoughtful enough to bring along for the flight, he thrust his face into it retching violently as his belly worked hard to turn itself inside out; ok, so sticking your head into a plastic bag wasn't really best practice as far as good health and safety was concerned, but right now? Right now, suffocation seemed like a very attractive option, thank you very much!

Once his stomach began to settle, he spat into the bag and flopped back into his seat, panting heavily as his head lolled limply against the padded seat back. He glanced across at Sam, in the seat beside him, sleeping the peaceful and uninterrupted sleep of the just. Scowling at his peacefully dozing brother he felt a strong urge to tip the contents of the screwed-up bag dangling from his sweaty fist all over Sam's head.

Yeah, thanks for the frickin' support bro', really appreciate it.

He took a hesitant sip of water to freshen his mouth. No point in drinking at the moment, he was quite sure he'd be seeing it again well before they landed this tub.

Xxxxx

This Chupacabra hunt had all been Sam's idea. Some hick, ass-end-of-nowhere, dive on the edge of the Mojave Desert had been losing their livestock; all sorts - sheep, cattle, horses and goats. That just about said it all; the hell kind of place keeps goats in the 21st frickin' century?

No-one had taken a blind bit of notice until last week when a small child had turned up eviscerated. Suddenly, everyone was interested; except that it was such a trial to get anywhere near the place past countless roadless miles of one of the most inhospitable landscapes on earth; most people still didn't bother.

But the Winchesters weren't most people.

As terrible as Dean had felt about the little girl; he had fancied the ghoul job they had found in Chicago … at least Chicago had roads; roads with asphalt no less and Chicago had all the little things that made life bearable, like pizza houses and bars for instance. Then Bobby opened his friggin' hairy trap and told Sam he already had it covered.

So here they were sitting in a flying wardrobe en route to the end of the friggin' world.

Thanks Bobby!

Dean had already made a mental note to royally kick Bobby's raddled old ass when – if – they got back.

He sighed, swallowing spasmodically against the awful feeling of his stomach crawling around inside him, and gripped the end of the armrests. Eyes scrunched shut, he quietly hummed to himself; Metallica, Zeppelin, Sabbath … heck, anything, even ABBA would be better right now than listening to the pathetic mozzie whine of that friggin' puny excuse for an engine.

His heart performed it's own drumroll as the little plane gave another lurch.

Xxxxx

It was around a half an hour later when he opened his eyes, taking another tentative glance out of the window beside him, the vermillion expanse of Death Valley spread out below him; way, way too freakin' far below him.

The shadow of the little plane followed them along the sunbaked ground; a tiny, T-shaped dot haunting their path.

Beside him, Sam's soft snores drifted across the cabin, tormenting and mocking him. Accidentally on purpose he elbowed Sam hard in the ribs. The action engendered an indignant snort and a wrinking on the nose, before Sam's head drooped limply onto Dean's shoulder, the gentle rhythm of his snores resuming with scarcely an interruption.

Dean breathed deeply, he just knew he was going to be making use of another of those plastic bags soon, and if his idle freakin' sasquatch of a brother didn't wake up before then, he was definitely going to get it straight across the face.

He fidgeted in miserable agitation and scraped a sweat soaked palm over an equally sweat soaked face.

"How much longer?" he grunted hoarsely in the direction of the pilot's seat.

When no response was forthcoming he leaned forward, trying to ignore the creeping nausea that the motion caused.

Grasping the top of the pilot's seat, he leaned round, aiming to catch the pilot's attention. If he only knew how much longer he had to endure this friggin' nightmare, he could distract himself counting the seconds until they touched down.

When he had leaned far enough forward to be able to see round the back of the pilots seat, the sight that confronted him sent his heart plummeting into his boots and made him topple in shocked horror backwards into his seat, fumbling breathlessly for the puke bag.

The pilot's seat was empty.

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Chapter 2

Things aren't getting a whole lot better for our favourite aviophobe.

xxxxx

Dean's head swam; unable to rationalise what he had just seen, his mouth worked silently, mindlessly; "Oh God; oh God; oh God; …" A verbal manifestation of the overwhelming fear that was rapidly consuming him.

He leaned forward to take another look; hoping against forlorn hope that his panic-crazed mind was playing tricks on him.

But luck would never be that kind; saucer wide eyes stared at the empty seat. Where the hell was the freakin' man? This was ridiculous! The sonofabitch had been there when this stupid damn bucket took off. A cursory glance around the cabin didn't make him feel any better; the space was tiny, and there was certainly nowhere a man could secrete himself out of sight of any other passengers.

The pilot had simply vanished.

Dean swayed as the walls of the cabin closed in around him; the tinny whine of the engine growing louder and louder, drilling through him; a mocking, vibrating drone which filled his head, and bore down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. He pressed his hands over his ears, letting out a hoarse cry as his knees buckled underneath him.

xxxxx

He reached across and grasped Sam by the shoulder, raggedly shaking his sleeping brother; "S'mmy" he hissed frantically through clenched teeth, "wake up, c'mon". When there was no response, he shook harder.

"Dude;" his strangled voice more of a plea, "Sammy, wake the hell up!"

Sam continued to snore peacefully, his head lolled limply onto his shoulder in the wake of his brother's attempts to wake him.

Blind panic tightened it's grip and Dean's breath tightened with it, becoming harsh, rasping gasps; He rose on weak, trembling legs and grabbed Sam harder by the shoulders shaking him frantically, violently; battering him against the padded seat back. "Wake up, Sammy," he wailed, "Please God, damnit dude, wake up, what's wrong with you?"

His frantic cries tailed off into gulping sobs and he sunk limply onto the cabin floor; white knuckled fingers still gripping fistfuls of Sam's shirt as blackness claimed him.

Oblivious to the drama going on within it, the little plane continued it's journey, propeller buzzing merrily as it rode the gentle breeze onwards towards it's destination.

xxxxx

Green eyes fluttered open hazily and, from his position sprawled on the floor, they focussed on Sam's feet. It didn't take long for the hideous reality of their situation to flood back into Dean's woozy mind, in all it's queasy glory. Clambering shakily back into his seat; he could feel himself slowly unravelling as the agony of fear tightened around him in an ice-cold grip.

He despised himself for it.

"Sammy, he whispered; "please, dude, what the hell's wrong?" He clutched his sleeping brother's limp hand, "C'mon man, I need your help."

He stifled a stray sob; "Sammy, I'm scared."

xxxxx

Dean knew that it was down to him to get them out of this mess; he had to get a grip. There was something terribly wrong with Sam; his brother needed help, and he wasn't going to get it stuck up here in this stupid plane. Dean focussed on that fact; he grasped it like a drowning man might clutch at a piece of driftwood.

That fact would make Dean strong; it would give him a purpose. It would get them on the ground safely.

xxxxx

Gripping the back of the pilots seat, Dean staggered into an upright position; his eyes tightly closed, just looking out of that windshield made his head spin, turning his guts to ice water.

He patted Sam's knee, "S'ok Sammy, I'm gonna get us down;" he swallowed convulsively, "we'll get you to a doctor just as soon as we get landed." The tremble in his voice betrayed the fear behind reassurance he tried so hard to convey.

Clambering clumsily into the pilot's seat, he toppled over as the plane lurched across another air pocket, bashing his nose against the window and finding himself suddenly staring wide eyed and unblinking over a wide expanse of desert, a dizzying two thousand feet below him.

He gave a choking cry and burrowed himself back into the seat, fighting hard to regain control of his breathing, to suppress the visceral panic which was threatening to rise once more. Forcing himself to open one eye, he gave a queasy groan as he saw the expanse of desert again; this time through the plane's windshield.

Squirming uncomfortably in the seat, his shirt clung to him, drenched with sweat; the cabin was rank with the sour odour of his terror. He dug his nails into his palms, focussing on the pain to give him something else to think about other than what he could see in front of him. He swallowed convulsively as nausea, his constant companion on this freakin' trip, crept over him again; all the while muttering breathlessly to Sam to hang on, he'd have him to a doctor real soon.

Dean exhaled long and slowly; "right, c'mon Winchester, pull yourself together". He palmed the sweat and tears from his face with a trembling hand, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

He reviewed his entire knowledge of planes and flying which was limited at best. The plane hadn't plummeted to the ground yet; that was good. That means it must have some kind of autopilot mechanism engaged; but if Dean's limited understanding was correct, although autopilot could keep the plane in the air, it couldn't land the thing. You still needed a human for that. Okay, that wasn't so good.

"Right, I must be able to make some sense out of all this crap" he muttered, eyes scanning the flight deck; anything to avoid looking out of the windshield. The myriad of dials, levers and buttons had him gaping in confusion and he suddenly had a first inkling of the magnitude of the task ahead of him.

Swearing at himself as the tears of fear and frustration threatened again, he wiped his face aggressively, "C'mon you friggin' girl; Sammy's sick, he needs you to keep your pathetic whiny ass together."

He reached out to the handset of the radio hooked to the flight deck, and fiddled with it, pressing buttons and yelling into it at the top of his voice. In a brief moment of clarity, he suddenly realised; headsets! All pilots wear them when they fly; perhaps they need them to make the radio work. Twisting in his seat, he found the pilot's abandoned headset and, slipping it on, he began his attempt to make contact with the outside world once again.

Relief rolled across him like a tidal wave when he heard a voice crackle into being through the hissing interference.

xxxxx

"This is South Valley Airfield. Over."

Dean could have wept. "Help me, oh God, please help me;" he blurted, "I'm in a plane, my brother's sick, I can't w-wake him. Our pilot's gone and-and there's no-one who can fly the friggin' plane. Don' know what to do. Please h-help me; don' know what to do..."

"What do you mean your pilot's gone? Over."

Dean became increasingly agitated; "He's gone, disappeared; he-he just ain't here any more."

There was a pause on the other end of the radio. "What's your flight designation and route? Over."

Dean hesitated to compose himself; he sure as hell wasn't going to let this man hear the panic in his voice; "We're heading for some freakin' godforsaken shithole called Hogscreek," he announced.

"What is your aircraft? Over."

Oh, for heaven's sake – it's shit, that's what it is! Dean scanned the flight deck searching for some kind of clue; under the circumstances he guessed that 'a freakin' pile of flying crap' wouldn't really help this man. After what seemed like forever, he spotted the information he needed engraved on the top of the flight deck.

"Um, a Cessna 172, I think." He took a shaky breath, as he fought back the rising nausea, "look, please, I need your help, my brother's sick … this is taking too long."

"Where did you say your pilot was? Over."

"I don't frickin' know,' snapped Dean, "sonofabitch was on board when this-this piss poor pile of shit took off and now he's gone, an-an' I don't friggin' know where ..." His last vestiges of his pride departing, Dean was painfully aware the pitch of his voice was rising along with the panic which was taking a relentless hold of him again, he was breaking down, unravelling, and each time it was becoming harder and harder to get a grip of himself; "please, p-please help me," he pleaded; "there's no-one to fly the plane. Please we need your help, I-I don't know what to do."

Dean guessed that the guy on the ground either thought he was a raving nutjob or that he, himself, had iced the pilot; furthermore, he really didn't care. If getting to the ground safely meant a welcome delegation from some two-bit, hick local law enforcement or the funny farm, that was fine by him. That was a problem he knew he could deal with.

xxxxx

The voice sounded again; this time gentler, more informal. "Okay buddy, I'm Peter," it said, "what do I call you?"

"Dean;" he replied quietly, "Uh, I'm Dean."

"Okay, Dean, can you look at the fuel gauge for me? It's a dial close to the centre of the control panel."

Dean scanned the flight deck briefly, "yeah, found it," he replied.

"What does it show, Dean?"

Dean squinted at the gauge, "Uh, it's pointing between the red and the yellow bit of the dial."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the radio which Dean didn't like the sound of one bit.

"Okay, Dean," Peter's voice sounded serious, "I'm not sure where you are, I think you may have gone off-course since you, uh, lost your pilot." He continued, calmly yet urgently; "you don't have much fuel left, about twenty minutes worth."

Dean could feel himself starting to panic again; "So-so, what do we do?"

There was a pause before the radio crackled into life again, "Okay Dean, I need you to listen very closely to me, I'm going to talk you through bringing your plane down."

The shock of the words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He keeled over, retching violently as sheer terror wrung his guts out with an ice-cold grip.

He fumbled with the radio, dropping it into his lap; hands shaking so hard he could barely press the button.

"No, no way," he gasped through clenched teeth, "I can't – I-I can't do that. I can't even look through the friggin' windshield without pukin'. Please, I can't do it. You've gotta help me some other way."

"There is no other way to help you Dean." Peter stated matter-of-factly, "I'm really sorry, but I don't have time to do this gently. You have twenty minutes before your fuel dries up and I don't need to explain what that means. If you want to help your brother, you need to pull yourself together, and listen to every word I say."

Xxxxx

tbc

ps: don't worry, Samfans, Sam does see some action as of next chapter ...


	3. Chapter 3

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Dean prepares to face his very worst nightmare ...

Rated T for one use of the 'F' word (my first in 60 stories, wow; not like me to show that sort of restraint!)

Chapter 3

xxxxx

"Dean?"

"Dean, are you okay?"

The voice on the radio was beginning to sound concerned.

"DEAN …"

Dean shook his head with a flinch as if emerging from a trance; "Uh, yeah; I'm here;" the long awaited response came in barely a whisper.

"Everything okay?" The relief in the voice was palpable even over the crackling of the radio.

Dean scowled; "I'm stuck in a plane the size of a tea crate, my brother's sick, I've puked so many times, I'm hurling stuff I haven't even eaten yet, we're floating two thousand feet in the air with nothing but a lawnmower engine keeping us from crashing to earth in the middle of the friggin' desert so … yeah, everything's totally crap thanks."

"I understand," came the sympathetic voice over the radio; "are you strapped in?"

Dean reached round and groped for his shoulder harness fumbling clumsily as he tried to fasten it with violently shaking fingers, swearing furiously as he dropped it into his lap twice.

"Right," he panted, blinking hard as the frustration pricked his eyes; jeez, can't even do my friggin' seatbelt up - not a promising start.

The radio hissed into life again; "Okay, Dean, now I need you to take a look at the attitude indicator for me."

"The w-what?" Dean scanned the flight deck in agitated confusion; they were having a freakin' laugh, surely no-one needed all these damn dials and knobs to fly a tub this size.

"It's okay Dean; it looks like a picture of a horizon, and it has a little pair of wings that will tell you if your plane is straight or not." Peter's voice remained calm and reassuring. Well, of course it did, the bastard was comfortable and safe and sitting in a building on the damned ground.

Dean wiped a cuff over his sweat beaded brow, "Yeah, I can see the dial I think, but-uh, but it's hard to read what it says."

"Why's that Dean?"

"Um, well … I puked over it."

Xxxxx

A few minutes passed as Peter's reassuring voice had tried to put his reluctant pilot at ease by familiarising him with the controls. Unfortunately, his best efforts had failed spectacularly.

Dean's hand hovered over the yoke, he couldn't remember what Peter, his new best friend in the whole world, had called the damn thing, but what he had grasped was that as soon as he touched it, the autopilot was disengaged and it was down to him. From that point there was no going back.

His heart pounded against his ribs, faster and faster, harder and harder, like a jackhammer. He was starting to feel lightheaded again. No, no, no; can't faint. Not now, can't faint … pull it together.

He bit down hard on his lip and took a deep breath.

"When you're ready, Dean," came Peter's voice

Dean glanced back at his apparently comatose brother, and tried a watery smile; "getting' you to a doctors S'mmy."

His breath hitched as he grasped the stick.

Xxxxx

The plane lurched violently as the autopilot disengaged, and Dean yelped as it's nose dipped, the engine changing it's pitch from an annoying drone to a terrifying whine.

"It's falling;" he cried, letting go of the yoke in panic, "it's going down real fast, what do I do, what do I do?" Dean could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate as the plane shuddered against the immense stresses of it's sudden descent.

"Pull the yoke back just a little bit to straighten up; not too much though," Peter's voice was calm, yet had an unmistakable undertone of urgency.

Dean's shaking hands gripped the yoke, tugging it back; he cried out as the plane swung wildly beneath him, jolting him against the back of the seat, knocking the breath out of lungs.

"Smooth now" said Peter, "nice and smooth, just watch your altitude."

Dean didn't like to tell him he had his eyes closed.

xxxxx

His sweat soaked hands slipped on the handle of the yoke as the plane rocked and rolled, creaking and rattling around him. Dean never thought he would be happy to hear the pathetic whiny buzz of that crappy engine, but right now, compared to the other noises the plane was making, it would be music to his ears.

"You're doing good, buddy." Dean had to hand it to him, Peter was doing a good job of keeping up the reassurance; "easy now, just hold her steady and she'll bring you down smoothly."

"Smoothly my ass," gasped Dean as the plane pitched sideways, gathering speed; the engine's whine turning into a scream.

The ground reared toward them, noticeably closer now. Dean watched it through impossibly wide eyes, glazed with terror as he had never felt. Throat burning, he gasped for precious air; his breaths coming faster and harder, rasping as he fought against the shuddering yoke to keep control of the aircraft.

"Back on the throttle Dean, you need to slow down just a little bit"

"Oshitoshitoshitoshitoshit oooooooooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiit …" Dean's voice rose into a wail as the plane shuddered and bucked, groaning and creaking as it plunged down towards the waiting desert floor. He wondered how long he could scream without pausing for breath; his efforts so far had been impressive.

Battling to slow the plane's descent; Dean could see the ground only a few hundred feet away now, and getting closer by the second; he abandoned all pretence of trying to be calm.

Paralysed with fear, he gripped the throttle lever in a cold, sweat-dampened hand; Peter's words washed over him unheard. His mind had shut down against the horror of what was happening, and had taken him someplace else, somewhere where he wasn't hurtling to his doom in a small shitty aircraft, somewhere where Sam was well, and wouldn't have to die because of his useless brother's incompetence.

He palmed the continuous flow of tears away from his face, stricken with fear and resignation as he watched the ground rushing up to meet them; it was then he was startled by voice behind him.

"D-Dean? What the hell?"

He tried to turn, but he was held fast by the harness. But he didn't need to turn; that voice was unmistakable.

It was Sam.

Xxxxx

"Sammy? You okay man? YOU OKAY?"

At the sound of his brother's voice, Dean's resolve snapped back into him; he yelled back to Sam at the top of his voice, "Sam, you okay? Hang on bro' – gettin' you some help."

He'd heard Peter say something about raising the nose, and doing something with the flaps. The hell? What friggin' flaps? He tugged back on the throttle feeling the plane lurch as it began to slow, cringing as the engine spluttered and whined horribly."Sammy, buckle up dude, gonna be bumpy …"

"Dean, throttle back, lift the nose, raise the flaps …" the soothing mantra over the radio continued.

He frantically pulled and pushed levers, flicking switches, murmuring incoherently as the plane continued to descend, "oooooooohcrapocrapcrapcrap …"

Two hundred feet from the ground; the plane pitched and swung as Dean tried desperately to wrestle it into the right angle for landing.

Peter was barking orders at him on the radio, behind him he could hear Sam yelling, wanting to know what the hell was going on.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he screamed.

One hundred feet from the ground; Dean managed to drag the nose up a little, still fighting for control as the little aircraft listed sideways,

Fifty feet; the ground raced along beneath them, the engine roaring and hissing as he continued pulling back the throttle, slowing the plane by fractions, his damp hands slipping and losing their grip as the plane juddered and pitched.

Twenty feet, ten feet . "Hang on Sam, hang on …"

As the plane made contact with the ground, there was a clatter as it bounced, and lurched sideways, the two occupants yelped as they were flung sideways with it. It touched down again, this time the right wheel dug into the soft sand of the desert floor and snapped off with a ragged crack. The aircraft gave a sickening jolt, as it collapsed sideways, tearing the right wing from the fuselage and sending the crippled aircraft into a skidding spin across the desert floor.

It's nose planted into the ground, buckling grotesquely and shattering the propeller into flying smithereens. Pinned into his seat by the massive forces of the crash, Dean did his best to duck as whirling shrapnel from the propeller peppered the fractured windshield.

"Dean, man … Dean, you OK?" Sam's voice bellowed wildly from the back of the skidding wreck.

Eventually the ruined fuselage skidded to a halt in a cloud of red dust, which settled slowly over the silent, gently rocking wreckage.

Dean sat in the pilot's seat, shaking uncontrollably, gulping beautiful ground level air into his shocked, battered lungs. Something warm trickled down the side of his tear-stained face, and he was aware of a searing pain along his left leg which appeared to be trapped under the tangled remains of the flight deck.

But Dean didn't care; he was on the ground; Sam was alive, and what's more he was awake. Somewhere behind him, Dean could hear Sam unbuckling his seatbelt and frantically calling his name. When he felt Sam's large hand grasp his shoulder, he gave a deep sigh, and sank into well deserved oblivion.

Xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Chapter 4

Surely things can't get any worse for our two favourite brothers...

xxxxx

Sam crouched down as best he could in the cramped space and grasped his unconscious brother's shoulders, "Dean, dude; talk to me, Dean..." he barked urgently.

Dean's head lolled limply onto his shoulder.

Sam gently removed the pilot's headset and explored his brother's clammy, bloodstained face with nervous fingers, pausing to probe the copiously bleeding wound on his hairline.

Satisfied that there was no glass or debris in the wound, he removed his overshirt, wincing as the motion pulled on abused shoulders and a neck that would, no doubt, be as stiff as a board tomorrow pressing it against Dean's forehead.

All the while speaking soft, soothing nonsense, he unclipped the shoulder harness that was pinning Dean into the pilot's seat and was mightily relieved to feel a strong heartbeat under his hand as he did so.

He took a moment to scan the picture of devastation around him.

The aircraft's interior was in a state of utter disarray; the flight deck and windshield, a grotesque tangle of metal and shattered glass. A ghostly layer of orange desert dust, carried high on the currents caused by the plane's landing was already settling over the wreckage.

Sam took in the crusting vomit stains across Dean's lap and the seat, he saw the tracks of tears staining the unbloodied side of his brother's face; he could smell the lingering odour of adrenalin-fortified sweat. Sam knew all too well how his brother felt about flying, and he couldn't bring himself to imagine the horror of the harrowing ordeal that Dean had been forced to go through to get that plane down safely. An ordeal he had to endure alone.

The very thought of it crushed Sam.

xxxxx

Suddenly he felt Dean's head shift beneath his hand; the movement was accompanied by a low groan.

"Hey Dean," he murmured softly, cupping Dean's face. "S'okay, we're down on the ground now; you got us down safely you brave sonofabitch, you."

Dean blinked vacantly, flinching as Sam gently pressed down on the wound on his forehead. "S'mmy, you okay?" he whispered.

"I'm good," smiled Sam, "bit battered and bruised, but nothing' like I haven't had before!" Dean turned to look up at him, but Sam held his head fast.

"shhhh, take it easy dude," Sam soothed, "don't move, you're bleedin' a load."

"Couldn't wake you Sammy." Despite Sam's repeated pleas to him not to move, Dean turned, staring wide-eyed up at his brother from under the crumpled shirt Sam had pressed against his head, "you were sleepin' the whole time; really scared me." He swallowed hard and took in a long shaky breath, "thought you were really sick."

Sam looked directly into his brother's eyes; he could feel Dean was still shivering violently, and he knew that was nothing to do with the desert's rapidly dropping temperature, now dusk was falling. "I-I dunno what happened." His eyes dropped to the ground as he shook his head, "I don't remember anything, I'm just sorry I wasn't there to help you bro', really I am."

He lifted the cloth and was relieved to see the blood flow had slowed encouragingly.

"What happened, dude?" He asked, his free hand shifting to Dean's shoulder; "what happened to the pilot?"

"Don' know, I jus' …" The words dissolved into a hiss of pain. Sam felt Dean's brow furrow beneath his hand.

"Hey man, you hurtin' anywhere else?" Sam asked in concern, scanning his brother's body. It was then he noticed Dean's leg trapped under the crumpled flight deck.

"P-Peter …" he grunted, "call Peter, m'leg hurts."

"Who's Peter?" Sam asked, gently kneading the tense shoulder beneath his hand; "radio," whispered Dean, "guy on the radio, he talked me down; said he coun't find us on his radar thing, but maybe he has now?"

Sam was becoming worried about Dean. Apart from his physical injuries, Dean was unusually subdued; glassy, expressionless eyes watching Sam's every move, the crippling tremors that gripped his body, if anything, growing stronger with each passing moment.

Sam had seen this before, in a lot of people they had saved; some people called it shock, some called it post-traumatic stress, many people didn't have a name for it. It was the body's 'fight or flight' reflex; a natural and instinctive preparation for dealing with severe and life-threatening danger which often meant that once the danger was past and the anaesthetic of adrenaline began to leave the system, many succumbed to a complete breakdown.

Sam sadly rubbed his brother's arm; he knew some people spend a lifetime in therapy to get over something like this.

Scanning the remains of the flight deck, Sam saw the radio handset laying under the co-pilot's seat. He picked it up, only to find a length of severed wire dangling from underneath it.

"CRAP!" he yelled angrily, throwing the dead handset through the shattered windshield in frustration.

Xxxxx

"Okay dude, I'm gonna try and lift this wreckage so we can free your leg." Sam spoke softly, but urgently, keeping his eye closely on his brother; "ready?"

Dean bit down on his lip and nodded mutely from under the rumpled bloodstained shirt that Sam had charged him with holding against his forehead for the duration of this exercise.

"Okay, on three," Sam grasped the crumpled edge of the flight deck, and braced himself, "one … two …"

Ignoring the ache across his back and shoulders, he heaved the mangled unit up a few inches to take the pressure off his brother's leg. Dean cried out, arching out of the seat in agony.

"Okay, okay, dude;" Sam reassured breathlessly; every fibre of him desperate to hold and soothe his distressed brother, but knowing, as he strained to hold the heavy unit up, he absolutely couldn't drop it back on Dean's leg.

"can you move your leg dude?" He gasped, arms trembling under the weight.

Dean's eyes closed tightly as he shook his head, swallowing convulsively, looking for all the world like he was about to vomit.

Sam realised he couldn't hold the metal frame up and help Dean extract his leg, he just didn't have enough hands; or enough strength. "Okay dude, hang in there," he muttered softly, face betraying a cheerfulness in his voice he didn't feel. He dropped down to his knees, bending his back and wedged a shoulder under the ridge of the tangled wreckage.

Using all his strength he arched his back, lifting the metal ridge as high as he could, grimacing against the pain of the metal edge digging into the flesh of his back. No wonder Dean was in pain, having that weight crushing his leg, Sam shuddered at the thought.

"Careful Sammy …" came the voice, barely a whisper from beneath the bloodstained shirt.

With both hands free, Sam grasped Dean's leg gently at the knee and ankle, and took the opportunity to gently run his hands along the length of Dean's lower leg. There was a warm, sticky wetness to the denim below Dean's knee; blood Sam assumed. When his hands moved down nearer to Dean's ankle, Dean flinched violently with a yelp and Sam's heart sank as he felt the unmistakable grinding of loose bone edges.

Knowing he had to work quickly, and sagging against the increasing pressure of the trashed flight deck on his back, he carefully cradled Dean's leg in his long arms, and gently manouevred it out from under the unit onto the co-pilots seat. He whispered soft reassurances as Dean buried his face into his shoulder, stifling a yelp.

Xxxxx

Kneeling over the bloodied denim with their first aid kit beside him, Sam looked across at his brother, gesturing to Dean's jeans. "I'm gonna have to cut them to take a look, okay?"

Dean had swivelled round in the pilot's seat and was now leaning against the side window so he could look directly at Sam without bending or turning; he chewed his lip and nodded shakily, allowing Sam to gently cut the denim up the front of his leg to just above his knee.

He instantly saw the source of all the blood, a deep gash down the side of the shinbone, but nothing more than a flesh wound he was relieved to note; nothing he hadn't dealt with a hundred times before; Dean's ankle, on the other hand, was a deep, bruising purple and already swelling grotesquely. Sam grasped at small mercies; sighing in relief that the break hadn't pierced the skin.

"Gonna take your boot off dude," Sam smiled at Dean who was watching him wordlessly from beneath weary, heavy lidded eyes, "your foot needs room to swell up." He carefully removed the laces from Dean's boot, and gently worked it off his foot. Cutting his sock off, he added with a mischevious grin, "shame I didn't bring a peg for my nose!"

"my feet don' smell, they're sweet and fragrant;" came a huffed response, Dean wrinkling his nose in a mock scowl, wincing as the motion pulled on the gash on his forehead.

Sam gently squeezed Dean's knee, and cringed in playful disgust; "not from where I'm standin' bro'," he grinned.

"bitch …"

Sam smiled, buoyed by a tiny hint of the old Dean, "jerk!" he replied fondly.

Sam worked quickly and efficiently considering he was hunched and restricted in the cabin's tiny space, binding Dean's broken leg to his uninjured leg in the manner of a splint; all the while Dean remained silent, his gaze never leaving Sam's confident hands.

When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he set about cleaning and dressing the wounds on Dean's leg and head, soothing and reassuring, keeping as much eye contact with his brother as possible. As time went on, he was becoming increasingly concerned about Dean's condition; yes, he was injured, but, this quietness, this timidness was just not Dean. Dean was always a thoroughly obnoxious and, Sam smiled at the pun, impatient patient. This incarnation of his brother was a pale imitation he had never seen before, and it scared him to death.

Dean's eyes had begun to droop closed under Sam's soft touch, and once he had finished dressing the wounds, and knowing how cold the desert night could become, he wrapped Dean in one of his big fleece sweatshirts, and covered him with a jacket, cushioning his head against the plane's window with a folded pair of jeans from his duffel.

"Get some sleep bro', everything's okay." he soothed, fingertips ghosting across Dean's spiky crown until he was sure he was asleep.

Xxxxx

Sam clambered carefully and quietly into the back of the plane, swearing as he grazed his head on the cabin's ceiling and slumped heavily into a seat, fumbling for his phone, he flipped it open.

No signal.

He inwardly cursed; no of course there wasn't; that would be far too convenient.

He'd told Dean everything was okay. That was a complete bunch of crap; everything was about as far from okay as it could be.

They were stuck in the middle of the desert, in a wrecked plane, no idea where they were, unsure if help was coming, no idea where or why the pilot had gone, and to cap it all Dean was injured and immobile.

He rubbed a hand across his aching head as he watched Dean twitch in his sleep, a breathy moan of discomfort escaping his lips.

Sam frowned. No way he was going to lay this all on Dean. Dean had done his bit, he had pushed himself to the verge of insanity to keep them safe. Sam would help them this time, Sam would work something out, Sam would protect his brother.

It was his turn to do the worrying.

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Desperate times mean that Sam has to make a decision that he knows Dean won't like ...

**_As this may (or may not) be my last posting before Christmas, can I take this opportunity to wish all my fab friends on Fanfic a wonderful Christmas, safe travels, and a healthy and happy 2011. I hope you all find a Dean under your misletoe ;)_**

Chapter 5

xxxxx

Sam spent a cold, restless and uncomfortable night taking stock of their situation, and watching his brother sleep. He was actually watching his brother's legs sleep – he couldn't see Dean's body from behind the back of the pilot's seat; but he could hear the sighs and groans which pointed to the likelihood that Dean, too, was enduring a thoroughly restless and unpleasant night.

In fact, Sam reflected, he wouldn't be at all surprised if the crafty bastard wasn't sleeping at all, and just pretending for Sam's consumption. But, he was in no position to preach about being deceitful; in the interests of protecting Dean, he hadn't been quite so forthcoming about his own condition as he might have been. His chest was mottled with bruises of every shape, size and colour; he hadn't mentioned the dislocated shoulder he'd rapidly popped back into place before he could go to check on Dean. He was quite sure the dramatic landing had tied his neck in some kind of knot; it was protesting wildly and stiffening by the second; not being in any way helped by an environment in which he couldn't stand up straight.

Overnight, he had carried out a thorough inventory of their provisions; given that they had packed for a four-hour flight, and not a prolonged survival scenario in a hostile environment, he was not optimistic, nor was he surprised when their combined stock of provisions turned out to consist of just over two litres of water, an Oh Henry chocolate bar and a banana.

Not enough to sustain the two of them for a day in this environment.

Through the night, Sam had done a lot of thinking, and a lot of worrying; he'd examined their limited - very limited - options, and after endlessly mulling over the alternatives and the consequences of each option, he had reached a difficult and reluctant decision.

That was the easy part; now he had to sell it to Dean.

Xxxxx

Dean groaned, and shifted his aching back with a yawn, slowly opening desperately tired eyes. He froze, mid-yawn, as his blurred eyes focussed on his brother's smiling face, filling his field of vision.

"S'mmy …" he grunted vacantly, knuckling his eyes with a wince.

"Breakfast?" Sam smiled, handing Dean half of the chocolate bar, and a bottle of water. "Drink it slowly, we don't have much," he added.

Dean took the chocolate hesitantly; "uh, thanks," he muttered, tugging the fleece jacket tighter around himself against the dawn chill.

Sam wedged himself the on the floor between the seats, so that he could sit and talk to his brother, stifling a grimace as a sudden pain gripped his neck and shoulder He took in Dean's blackened and heavily swollen ankle, "I've got some painkillers in the first aid kit, dude; but you gotta eat first."

Dean nodded, letting out a groan which prompted Sam to instinctively reach out and grasp his elbow.

"Dude;" said Dean, hesitantly, "'m not goin' anywhere!"

Sam smiled, squeezing his brother's arm. "Not on that leg you're not!" He replied, offering the painkillers.

The brothers sat in silence, comforted by each other's closeness in the tiny cabin, watching and drowsing as the sun rose to it's zenith and brought the desert's intense heat along with it.

Sam busied himself making sure Dean drank little and often, took his painkillers, took off the fleece when the day became unbearably hot; he encouraged Dean to nap when the need arose.

All the while neither brother broke the physical contact.

xxxxx

It was mid afternoon, almost 24 hours since their traumatic landing, before Sam spoke up hesitantly; "Dean, I've been thinking'."

Dean was leaning back against the window, his closed eyes partially hidden by the gauze bandage wrapped round his head which had been working it's way down over his brow as the day wore on.

"Uh-oh, now we're in trouble;" he muttered, straight-faced.

"Just be thankful you're injured, an' I'm too much of a decent guy to smack a cripple." Sam replied in mock indignation.

Dean scowled; "so tell me, what were you thinkin'?"

"I was thinking', I might, um, go and take a walk and see if I can find any help," Sam announced nervously, speaking quickly as if that would reduce the impact of what he had just said.

"No." Came the response without the slightest hesitation.

"Dean, I just thought …"

"I said no, Sam."

Sam sighed; well that went well!

"Look, Dean. I won't go far, just a quick wander - to see if I can see any signs of civilisation nearby." He paused to see if he was getting through to Dean; the signs weren't encouraging.

"When we were coming in to land, I'm sure I saw a couple of buildings pass underneath us, it might have been that airfield where that guy, Peter, was …"

Dean glared at Sam from under the crooked gauze which had slipped ever lower over his eyebrows.

"No, what you said was that you wanted to go wandering off on your own in the middle of the friggin' desert." Dean irritably hoisted the bandage up to glare at Sam; "it ain't happenin' Sammy. We sit tight an' wait for Peter to come for us."

"We don't know that he will, it's been 24 hours already, and still no sign;" replied Sam, raising his voice a notch. "Last you heard the guy didn't have a clue where we were."

"Look Sammy," Dean softened his voice to try to calm the situation; he didn't want this discussion to degenerate into an argument. "I'm sure he's out looking for us even now; give it a couple of days, and we'll be fine." He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes, it was clear to Sam that he was in enormous discomfort. Sam wasn't sure if the sheen of sweat across his face and neck was down to the desert heat or something more sinister.

"We don't have a couple of days," snapped Sam, "Have you seen a single plane go over since we've been here?"

He watched Dean think for a moment before slowly shaking his head; "that's my point." He scraped a hand over his face, "Dean, our entire stock of provisions now is just over a litre of water and a banana."

"Party time;" grunted Dean without a hint of humour.

"That's not enough water to sustain both of us for the rest of today, never mind a couple more days on top of that" he snapped. "Do I need to remind you that you spent most of the journey puking your guts up and sweating like a pig, so you're dehydrated already?"

Instantly regretting his sharp tone, he reached out to rub Dean's arm. "I'm sorry, Dude, I didn't mean to shout, I'm just scared." He hesitated, looking into Dean's flushed face; "but if I were any other dude, you wouldn't give a second thought to me going out there wandering about."

Dean blinked, gazing up at Sam from under his bandage; his expression suddenly changed from looking like he was about to break down to looking irritable; "okay, Einstein, tell me this, those building you saw - what direction were they in?"

"There," Sam pointed towards the back of the plane with a confidence he wasn't sure he felt.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, "we spun a couple of times when I dumped this tub on the ground."

"Yeah" said Sam, "it was late afternoon when we landed, and the Sun was getting low in the sky ahead and to the right of us, that means we were flying from the south east to the north west;" he turned back to face Dean and gestured through the windscreen, "the sun set right in front of us last night, so that's west; that means south east is behind us and to the left …"

Dean paused, looking out slightly cross-eyed from under the bandage, before responding. "How'd you get so freakin' cleaver, smartass?"

Sam smiled weakly, and leaned forward so that his face was close to his brother's. "Dean, I've got to find some help; I think you're getting feverish, we have no food, no water, and no guarantee that anyone is coming to find us."

Dean hitched up the ever-slipping bandage and struggled to look Sam in the eye, "but Sam …"

"You know I've got to do this, don't you."

"But, Sammy ..."

"Dean ..." snapped Sam

Dean's nod was a long time coming, and barely perceptible.

Sam smiled, "let me do this, let me do something for you for a change".

Dean stared down into his lap. "Someone might come," he murmured quietly, grasping at any straw that might change Sam's mind; "leave it just a bit longer Sammy, 'cos someone might find us…"

But he knew it was a lost cause. He'd seen that look on Sam's face before; Sam's mind was set, and this was happening whether Dean wanted it or not.

He began to shake again.

Sam cupped Dean's chin; "I promise I'll be back before dark, dude; the hottest part of the day's over, if I leave now I can get a good look for a couple of hours before the daylight fails."

Dean gave a futile shake of the head, "Sammy …"

Patting Dean on the shoulder, Sam tried to reassure him; "trust me, this time tomorrow, you're gonna be lyin' in a hospital bed, in an air conditioned room, moanin' about your plaster cast itchin'."

Sam turned, wincing as his sore neck protested; he fussed and fretted, wrapping Dean in his fleece ready for the evening chill, and making sure that he forced down half the banana before taking the last of their painkillers.

"Right," Sam took a deep breath, "try to get some sleep, dude, I'll be back before you know it." He handed Dean a bottle containing half of their remining water.

He turned, checking his pockets to make sure he had what he needed; compass, phone, flashlight, water, and slowly exited the plane.

Dean watched him go with frightened, despairing eyes.

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Owing to the fact that I was able to blag a day off work today (huzzah), I'm able to post the next chapter.

The boys are in dire straights; but surely, and a combination of a dire situation and Winchester luck can lead to dire consequences ...

Chapter 6

xxxxx

Dean peered round the side of the pilot's seat, watching the door at the back of the plane intently. He wasn't sure how long since Sam had left and how long he'd been watching that door, but then at the moment, he wasn't sure about a lot of things.

For instance, he wasn't sure if he was hungry or thirsty; he suspected it was both, but then, that grinding empty pit in his belly could just as likely be fear.

He wasn't sure if he was hot or cold, he was shivering wildly, but then the sweat was pouring off of him. Sammy had said that he was getting feverish; and Sammy was normally right about things like that. Maybe he was, but then again, it might just be that he was scared.

He wasn't sure if his leg was hurting, or whether it was tingling, or whether it was just plain numb; but then again it could all be down to the knock on his head, and maybe he was just imagining the whole thing. Or on the other hand, it could be the fact that he was worried sick.

But the worst thing of all, he wasn't sure that Sam was going to come back; that was the thing that scared him more than anything.

Xxxxx

Sam wasn't sure how long he had been walking; he had been concentrating hard on trying to find those buildings with zero success so far, he hadn't noticed the sky darkening around him as the Sun dipped below the horizon. Crap! he had promised Dean he would get back to the plane before nightfall.

He pulled his sweatshirt around him, the night chill was already starting to bite; he looked around him. Should he stay put? Wait until Sun up before he headed back to Dean? Should he turn round right now? Dean would be scared to death; he was already in bad straights, what would a night alone worrying about Sam do to him?

Sam was sure those buildings couldn't be that far away, he must have come about five miles already. He looked back at the last traces of sunlight as they played along the horizon behind him. He'd just spend a little more time looking around, after all what use was he going back to Dean with no food, no water and no help.

As long as he kept those last creeping tendrils of daylight to his back, he'd be fine …

Xxxxx

Dean woke from a fitful sleep, blinking as his eyes accustomed to the darkness. His heart sank when despite his best efforts, there was no sign of Sam. He shivered, burrowing down into the fleece that Sam had left him and reached for the water bottle. He tilted his head back and drained the last few precious drops from it.

His fevered mind wandered to terrible images of Sam meandering lost in the desert; burned, delirious, stumbling, thirsty, scared …

"Where are you S-Sammy?" He whispered miserably, "don' wan' you to be 'lone ..."

Xxxxx

Sam watched the Sun rise; desperately thirsty, he had finished the last of his water earlier in the night; he spat in an attempt to disloge a film of desert dust which was coating his mouth. His disorientated steps became shorter and shorter as he stumbled onwards; his only thought to get back to the plane, to Dean.

Already the desert's heat was becoming overpowering, the Sun's rays a blinding white furnace that filled the sky, burning away his hope, mocking his futile attempts to find his way back to the plane.

He stared at the empty bottle; unsure whether he could see some water in it or not; he knew, even if he got back to the plane, there was no water there either. Nor was there any food. But what was there was Dean.

He thought of Dean, in the plane, alone, injured and sick, wondering where Sam could be, afraid to die alone.

Sam set his jaw, his resolve strengthened by his need to return to Dean; He scanned every horizon for some clue of the way back to his brother and found none.

He sunk to his knees in defeated despair.

Xxxxx

Dean panted wearily as the oppressive heat bore down on him; the knot of worry in his chest tightening to an intense grip; an ice-cold fist squeezing his heart and sucking the air out of his lungs.

Where the hell was Sammy. Why wasn't he back?

He shifted uncomfortably, stifling a cry as pain radiated through his leg.

Sam would be getting help, that's where he was; he was probably talking to someone who could help, right now. Sam didn't let people down, Sam was clever, heck, Sam would have probably landed the plane and got it down in such good condition, he could have taken right off again. He'll be turning up any time now with some water, some food and probably even a doctor in tow.

Dean smiled queasily at the image.

Where was he?

Xxxxx

The next time Dean opened his eyes, dusk had begun to fall; his vision swam as he blinked through the failing light, desperate to see the one thing he wanted and the one thing that wasn't there.

Sammy.

His head sunk back, leaning against the window; he no longer had the strength to hold it up. He stared at the discarded water bottle, there was still no water in it; why hadn't Sammy topped it up?

Why was he so thirsty?

Dean's hands shook as he gathered up the sweat soaked fleece, absently kneading it with shaky fingers. He glanced around the darkening cabin with blurred vision, swallowing back a wave of nausea.

He was frightened; frightened for Sammy, frightened of the dark, frightened of the pain.

Frightened of dying alone.

Xxxxx

Suddenly Dean was jolted out of his musings by the sound of someone clambering into the back of the plane. His heart swelled as the plane gave a little sideways lurch at the weight of someone climbing into the cabin.

"S'mmy?" Dean's voice was hoarse, desperate. "S'mmy, s'at you?"

Mustering all his effort, Dean shifted with a wince, peering shakily round the pilot's seat. As they focussed through the gloom, Dean's glassy eyes widened in disbelief; his mouth worked soundlessly as the figure leaned casually on the back of the seat, and looked down at him with a smile.

"Hey Dean!"

The face that looked down on Dean was the pilot's.

Xxxxx

tbc

**_Once again, a happy and healthy Christmas to you all x_**


	7. Chapter 7

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Dean gets the answers to some of his questions, but sometimes ... ignorance really is bliss.

Slight non -specific spoilers to goings on in Season 5 which is sometime in the future of this fic. (Probably should have said that right at the beginning, but there you go!)

Chapter 7

xxxxx

"Hey Dean".

The face which looked down on him from over the back of the pilot's seat smiled insincerely; "how ya doin?|"

Dean stared back up at the pilot, mouth hanging open in mute shock, his sweat beaded face a mask of fear and anger. He blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus his watery, fading vision; wet eyes asking all the questions he wasn't able to voice.

"Never were much of a raconteur, were you?" The pilot smirked …

Eventually Dean found his voice, "wha' h-happened, where'd-d'y go?" he croaked weakly, swallowing back the nausea that followed the words.

"Where's Sammy?" They were the only words he was able to speak clearly.

xxxxx

"Hey, Bucko; all in good time;" the pilot glanced around the cabin as he replied. "Y'made a right friggin' mess of my plane; what kinda god awful joke of a landin' d'ya call this?" He batted a loose wire hanging down from the ceiling.

"P-Peter told me how to land, but-bu' I was crap a-at it." Dean whispered, his ever-present shivering gradually increasing in intensity. He swallowed, weakly, everything was becoming so much harder to do; breathing, moving, understanding.

"Yeah, you're right there; this is, as you say, pretty crap!" The pilot responded humourlessly, studying the smashed windscreen.

"Why din't Peter come?" Dean pleaded, "why din't he come an' get us?" As he spoke, his hands shakily picked and pinched at the fleece that Sam had left him, in his nervous fidgeting, he had almost picked it bald.

"Ah well, y'see, there's a good reason for that;" the pilot nudged Dean's shoulder, making him flinch, and look up from the fleece in his lap. He watched mesmerised as the Pilot's face flickered and blurred into another face; that of a man a few years older than Dean with mousy brown hair surrounding a prematurely bald patch.

"I'm here now!" he announced. The mocking voice was undeniably Peter's.

Dean stared; "Peter? Don' und'stand …"

Peter sighed deeply; "Jeez, it's hard work!" He scratched his bald patch irritably, "how do you make it through life with nothing but that tiny cro-magnon brain cluttering up that thick skull of yours?"

With those words, Peter's face faded away and was replaced by another, more familiar one.

The Trickster.

xxxxx

Dean stared with impossibly wide eyes at the face above him , "You - you did this?"

"Oh yeah, all my own work!" The Trickster grinned at the shocked expression on the flushed, sweat-breaded face below him.

Dean shook his head briefly as he tried to gather his wits. "Where's Sam? Bring him back," he croaked as aggressively as he could manage.

"Sam? Oh yeah, that smartass brother of yours!" The trickster leaned forward over the back of the seat as if he were about to share a secret.

"Well, here's the thing, Bucko," he whispered theatrically, "I'm afraid your brother wasn't quite as smart as he liked to think he was. I mean, going wandering off in the desert looking for an airfield that doesn't exist; Puh-lease!"

"You made him imagine that he saw it?" Dean replied breathlessly, dreading what was coming next.

"Yeah!" grinned the Trickster, clapping sarcastically, "well done; buy that man a drink!" He paused for a moment, "yep, your Sammy'll be buzzard chow by now. Sorry!"

He shrugged and looked around the cabin again, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.

Dean bit his lip, shaking his head desperately, "no, no you're wrong, Sammy's clever - he'll find it."

"oh … GOD … you really do run on basic motor functions only, don't you?" The Trickster's head flopped backwards melodramatically, as he raised his palms heavenwards; "Jeez - what've I gotta do to make you understand?"

Dean's heart pounded in his chest, and his head span. He could feel tears begin to burn … "don' believe you. You're lyin'."

"I mean, COME ON - going wandering off in the desert with hardly any water? What kind of a numbskull does that?" The Trickster looked down at Dean, shaking his head, "Nope sorry, buddy, your brother's just part of the eco-system now!"

Dean felt sick. He slumped against the window as he felt tears of desperate, heartbroken fury begin to fall. He glared at the Trickster, his face twisted with hatred.

"You bastard …" he croaked, lashing out weakly at the smirking face above him.

"Oh, let's dispense with the waterworks;" the Trickster scolded, grabbing the flailing arm; "Sammy's not important; but you an' me, we've got big things to discuss."

Dean's vision swam, and he felt himself lurch as he fought the urge to vomit. Sammy was dead; he had died all alone wandering in the desert. He had died for Dean.

"You see, Bozo; this whole situation, it was all planned, all engineered - by me!" The Trickster grinned enthusiastically, "fantastic isn't it?"

"I'm gonna kill you …" Dean whispered despairingly, stifling a sob; "I'm gonna end you if I have to spend the rest of my life hunting you, you smug bastard."

"Nah, you're not;" the Trickster sighed dismissively as he replied, "you're weak through hunger and dehydration, and you've got a broken leg which is, even as we speak, circulating a raging infection round your body." He patted Dean on the shoulder, ignoring his repulsed flinch at the touch. "There's only one thing that's gonna die round here, and it ain't me!"

"But, now if you can just hold back the snivelling for a few moments, so I can hear myself think, I'll do you the courtesy of explaining myself."

"Don't wanna hear it;" Dean grunted miserably, turning away from the Trickster, palming his face to dislodge the tears.

"Too bad, Sulky; you ain't going anywhere, so I don't see you've got much of a choice."

"You see, in time, in the grand scheme of things, there's gonna be some serious stuff going on," the Trickster explained, "I mean REALLY serious stuff; and God help us, but you are gonna be slap in the middle of it."

Dean shrugged weakly, his back hitched as another sob escaped; "Don' care."

The Trickster ignored him, continuing, "Can't say too much - you know what it's like, the order of the universe and all that, but here's the thing; you're gonna have some seriously tough decisions to make - and it pains me more than you can imagine to say it - but my future wellbeing depends to a large degree on the choices that you make."

He waited briefly for a response from the distraught, crumpled figure beside him, and received none.

Rolling his eyes, he carried on regardless; "sick isn't it? A being as powerful as me dependent on the basic intellectual functions of a blathering imbecile like you; but there it is, the hideous truth."

Dean glanced briefly at him; hooded green eyes bored into the trickster's soul. "I hope the choices I make destroy you". He snarled.

The Trickster ignored him. "Anyhow, I was kickin' my heels one day, you know like you do; and I was curious. I thought; if my future welfare is gonna be dependent on a yahoo like you, I'm entitled to see if you're man enough for the job".

"Then I kinda heard about Sam's bright idea of taking this plane trip across the desert to your next hunt and that gave me an idea; I could make you face your two greatest fears. Brilliant, huh?"

Dean glared up at him; "how'd you know about our plans, you spyin' on us? You got nothin' better to do?"

The Trickster pointed to himself; "uh, demi-god." He rolled his eyes in exasperation, "it means I know stuff!" He shook his head, "jeez, you really were near the back of the queue when they were handin' the grey matter out, weren't ya?"

Dean continued to glare, never breaking eye contact.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah; facing your worst fears." The Trickster continued, "firstly, landing this thing." he sighed. "Now, of course, I had to put Sam out of the picture for a while, couldn't have him fussing and being all logical and helpful and calm; so I had him take a little nap while you did the business in gettin' the plane down".

"You?" Dean growled angrily, "you made him sleep?" He choked back a sob, "I was worried sick about him."

The Trickster pointedly ignored him, "I have to admit, I wasn't optimistic, didn't think you had the jewels for it; but I was proved wrong; I mean apart from the snot and the puking and the screaming like a little girl, it was an act of pure heroism. Very impressive."

"Kiss my ass;" Dean grunted, turning away again.

"Then I decided to see if you would be able to let go of Sam, knowing he was almost certainly going out to his death." He paused, shaking his head, "I must admit, I was a bit disappointed there; you did make a right song and dance about that, but gotta hand it to you; you let him go in the end; so, there you are, Bucko, you've impressed me!"

Dean stared flatly at the Trickster. "Do I look like I give a shit?"

The Trickster feigned disappointment, "Oh now, don't be like that."

Dean hugged the bald fleece close to his chest. His vision was swimming again now, the nausea was rising again. "You told me already, I was going to die; now get lost and let me do it in peace" He muttered quietly without looking at the Trickster.

"Oh, I can do better than that" came the response.

Dean flinched at the sound of clicking fingers.

xxxxx

Dean opened his eyes to the whiny, irritating sound of those pathetic engines. He was strapped into the back seat of the plane, no head bandage, leg uninjured. A cursory glance out of the window showed that the little plane was merrily flying along exactly as it had been before this whole nightmare had started.

It took a few moments for his brain to process the information.

Then he opened his mouth and cried out in horror ...

Xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

Dean finds himself back where his whole ordeal started but has some difficulty coming to terms with what he's just experienced ...

Chapter 8

xxxxx

Sam jerked in his seat at the sound of Dean's waking cry; looking across the cabin he saw his brother, pallid as a living death, shaking violently in his seat, clawing frantically at the seatbelt fastener with trembling, unco-ordinated hands; "gotta get off, gotta get off …" he gasped between terrified, rasping breaths.

Sam tumbled out of his seat, reaching out towards his brother; "Hey Dean, hey, hey; What's wrong, man? C'mon, what's wrong?"

His words went unheard as Dean, finally managing to get his seatbelt undone, clambered out of his seat, flailing arms, fighting to get past Sam; "gotta get out … gotta get out," his words, incoherent with terror and barely audible between violent wheezing breaths.

"DEAN" Sam grasped both Dean's arms, trying to hold him still; "Dean, look at me, look at me; you can't get out Dean … we're flying."

The pilot looked round his seat; "keep him under control," he barked sternly, "this plane can't take that sort of punishment.

"I'm sorry", Sam panted, still fighting to hold Dean still, "he's a nervous flyer," he tried to soothe his panic-sticken brother, "but he's never been this bad before," he added.

Dean clawed and fought to get past Sam to the plane's exit, feeling the walls of the tiny cabin close around him. He gaped as he fought against the gulping, yawning breaths which were overpowering him, constricting his chest, suffocating him; "Oh God, help me, gotta get out …"

"Dean; DEAN." Sam held his brother tight and stared deep into the glazed panic-blinded eyes. This was a full-blown panic attack, something Sam had never seen in his brother before, and something he never wanted to see again, especially not in a confined space at 2000 feet.

"Do I need to call for medical help?" The pilot hollered over his shoulder.

"No thanks," Sam grunted, wrestling the flailing arms, "I got it." He knew Dean would never forgive him if Sam had him rushed to hospital for a panic attack!

Gathering Dean into his arms, he pushed him back into his seat and knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders hard.

Dean arched and squirmed under Sam's grip, his mouth yawning his gasping desperation to draw breath; "please … can't do it … ple-please …. w-wanna get off." He pleaded breathlessly.

Sam continued to look into Dean's eyes; "Dean, listen to me; you're hyperventilating;" he pressed his hand flat against Dean's convulsing chest, "you need to slow your breathing down." His calm voice betrayed his own distress at seeing his brother in this condition.

Dean's eyes latched onto Sam, registering a flicker of recognition for the first time, watching Sam frown as his arm shuddered from the rapid hammering of Dean's heart.

"C'mon Dean, slow it down for me," he took Dean's shaking hand and pressed it against his own chest, "c'mon, breathe with me, slow it down dude." Gradually, Dean's desperate heaving gulps slowed to deep, shuddering breaths.

"that's great dude, keep it up," Sam soothed.

"He ok?" the pilot's voice drifted over the back of his seat.

"Please Sammy, wanna get-get off this thing".

Sam ruffled the side of Dean's head, "you can't get off until we land bro', it won't be long now."

He turned to the pilot, "yeah," he sighed, "better thanks; how long until we touch down?"

"About twenty minutes; try to keep him calm, I'll keep it as smooth as possible."

"Thanks buddy," Sam turned back to Dean, who was busy wiping his nose on the back of a shaking hand. As he looked back up into Dean's face, Dean blinked to dislodge the tears which clung to his lashes and dropped his eyes in embarrassment.

Sam smiled, and rubbed Dean's arm. "Hey, what was all that about, dude?"

Dean swallowed back a shaky breath, and shook his head, "can't land this thing again; don' make me do it again …" He looked up at Sam, "wanna get out, please…"

Sam furrowed his brow, "whad'ya mean, dude? You're not landing the plane; that's what the pilot's for!" He tried to stifle a smile at the utterly surreal image of Dean landing a plane, as the pilot glanced back at them with raised eyebrows.

He patted Dean's shoulder, "Jeez, bro, that must have been one doozy of a nightmare!"

Dean shook his head, his shaking began to increase in intensity once again. "No… don' un'stand; not a nightmare … not …"

"Dean;" Sam grasped his brother's arm. "Gonna strap you in," He reached round beside Dean and grasped the two loose ends of the seatbelt, bringing them up across Dean's lap, and securing them.

"I gotta go back to my seat, an' strap in cos we're landing now, but I'll be just here, okay?" He stepped back to his seat, maintaining the physical contact with Dean for as long as possible, not missing the fact that Dean had his eyes squeezed tightly closed as he burrowed back into the seat, gripping the armrests ferociously.

Sam smiled, and laid a large hand across the back of Dean's rigid forearm. It remained there for the whole time that the little plane descended rockily and touched down smoothly with a soft squeal on the tiny Hogscreek airfield runway.

Once the little plane had rolled to a gentle halt, Sam realised that there was no power on earth that would stop the charging bull that his brother became as he tore his seatbelt off and clambered desperately over Sam's outstretched legs. He dragged the door open with such force that Sam was convinced they would be getting a hefty repair bill before they left the airfield and tumbled out of the plane's exit, dropping to his hands and knees on the asphalt. Sam leapt out of the plane after him and squatted beside the trembling wreck that was Dean; whispering soft reassurances and rubbing his back soothingly as he dry-heaved miserably into his chest.

The pilot discreetly dropped the brothers' duffels beside them, and patted Sam on the back, "hope he's better soon, pal," he muttered, adding something about not forgetting to pick up the puke bags in the cabin before they left. Sam smiled and watched him walk back to the small terminal building before turning his attentions back to Dean.

Xxxxx

In an uninspiring room of the Hogscreek Lodge Motel, Dean sat slumped weakly on the side of the bed, cradling a mug of coffee in both hands.

"D'you wanna tell me what that episode in the plane was all about?" Sam sat on the bed opposite him, and spoke softly.

"Jus' don' like flying." Dean mumbled unconvincingly.

"No," Sam shook his head, "you don't get off that easily; I 've seen you on planes puking, swearing, even singing friggin' Metallica, but I've never seen you that bad before."

Dean took a long drag on his coffee, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

"It was the Trickster Sam, he took me away."

Sam jolted, nearly choking on his coffee; okay, wasn't expecting that! "What d'y mean took you away?" He asked warily, "you never left the plane."

It seemed that once Dean started to speak, he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out; "I woke up, and the pilot was gone; you were asleep an' I couldn't wake you so I had to land the plane by myself, and I bashed it up pretty bad, put us down in the middle of the desert. I was hurt bad, and you wen' off looking for help, and it was all 'cos of the Trickster."

Seemingly oblivious to Sam's bemused face, he took a deep, shuddering breath and continued.

"He told me that some stuff would happen one day, real bad stuff, really important stuff, and I would have to make some hard choices an' face my worst fears and let you go, Sammy; he told me I would have to let you go to your death Sammy, one day, I would have to let you die. I let you go while we were in the desert, an' you died."

Sam could see Dean's very real distress while the painful words were pouring out of him; he reached out to try to reassure his brother.

"Dean, it didn't happen, you know that, don't you?" He clutched Dean's hand, smiling as calmly as he could, "it was all just a nightmare; a really, vivid nightmare."

Dean shook his head; "no, it was real Sammy; he tol' me that when this stuff all happens, what I do will benefit him in some way and he wanted to see if I had the guts to do it, that's what he said."

"I didn't think you would die Sammy, I didn't; I know you're smart, you said you knew exactly where the airfield was and you told me all about the sun an' the shadows an' stuff an' I let you go." He wiped the back of a shaky hand across his tearing eyes, "Sammy, I let you walk away to die."

Sam got up, and stepped across to Dean's bed, sitting down next to his distraught brother. "Dean, you're talking like this is real; it was just a nightmare; a really, vivid, lucid nightmare."

"Dean shook his head and Sam could feel that he was still trembling. "Sam, I can still feel the plane shaking as I took it down, I can remember the crack when my ankle broke; I can smell my own puke; this wasn't a nightmare Sammy, this was real."

Sam sighed and put his coffee down. "Dean, if this is all real, how come I don't remember it if I was there? He rubbed his brother's back in an effort to calm the shaking. "It doesn't make sense; why should the Trickster care about anything that happens to a pair of nobodies like us or a few lousy decisions that you make later on down the line?"

Dean took a hesitant breath; "he says that his future welfare will depend on what choices I make and he didn't want something that important left in the hands of someone who wasn't man enough for the job."

Dean looked at Sam once more; "Sammy, he says one day I'm gonna have to face my worst fears, like I'm gonna have to let you walk away and die."

Sam saw the tears shining in the scared green eyes, and spoke slowly and gently.

"Dean, think about this logically;" he reassured, "you're scared to death of flying; your instincts, your imagination is all on edge; the adrenaline is going crazy in your system. You fell asleep and your mind came up with this wild idea while you were dreaming."

He looked deep into his brother's eyes; the fear, the sadness that they contained was tangible, and heartbreaking.

"I mean I know all that stuff about him being able to create alternate worlds and mess with people's minds and stuff, but really, why would he be in any way benefited by any mundane decision you make or will ever make?"

"I dunno, he just said …"

"He just said nothing dude; 'cos this is all in your mind." Sam interrupted gently, still rubbing Dean's hunched back. "Look, you say you broke your ankle?"

"Yeah."

"Well, look" he pointed to Dean's feet, "nothing wrong with them."

"Yeah, but …"

"An' you said I died?

"yeah but …"

"Well, here I am," Sam smiled, pointing to himself, "safe and sound!"

Dean seemed to shrink smaller and smaller with every word Sam said; his face a study of confusion, and fear.

"Dean; you will NEVER have to make a decision to let me walk away and die, because I will never put you in that position; you hear me?" Sam stared deep into the frightened green eyes, "and you will never have to face your worst fears alone - I would always face them with you, so even if it was the Trickster - which it wasn't - he was talkin' crap!"

Dean looked up and nodded mutely.

"It's all in your mind Dean, this is your fear talking." Sam squeezed Dean round the shoulders, "I should never have arranged to fly to this place. This is what's screwed you all up, not some mysterious visit from the Trickster. This is all my fault Dean, and I'm sorry, so sorry!"

Dean scraped a clammy palm across his forehead, swallowing back the urge to break down again. He engineered a forced smile for Sam's benefit; "Maybe you're right. Jeez, that was one vivid nightmare - don' ever wan' another one like that!"

Sam stood up, "Dean, when we've finished this hunt, we'll drive back." He said solemnly, "We'll find a truck, or rent one - hell, steal one if we have to; and we'll find a road route through this dead hole. I promise you'll never set foot on another plane. Ever."

Dean looked up and gave Sam a watery smile. "You've no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," he whispered.

Sam smiled; "now do we agree? This was all just a really vivid, scary nightmare?"

Dean nodded slowly.

"There was no trickster, no broken ankle; the pilot didn't disappear and you didn't land the plane. I didn't die, nor are you going to have to let me go away to die; because it was all a dream, right?"

"Right"

Sam smiled, "You were sitting in your seat twitching and fidgeting and moaning like hell, I felt like I was living the nightmare with you. Believe me, I'd have known if you went anywhere; I would have enjoyed the peace and quiet!"

Dean punched his brother on the arm. "Bitch!"

Sam grinned.

"Jerk!"

Dean rose shakily to his feet and stretched; "gonna have a shower, wash the smell of puke off me."

"Good idea," Sam smiled mischievously.

Dean walked over to the bathroom, offering Sam a rude gesture as he passed. Sam turned with a smile watching him go before reaching for his duffel, and began to unpack.

Xxxxx

Dean stood, brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. His sunken eyes a testament to the ordeal he had suffered on that stupid, pointless friggin' plane. Sam was right; Sam was the smart one; everyone knew that. And he was right this time; what possible interest could a freakin' self-confessed demi-god have in anything they did with their mundane little lives.

Of course Sam was right.

Dean spat into the sink, and rinsed his mouth. A few beers and a pizza - oh, and a good night's sleep; then the memory of this ridiculous freakin' episode would start to fade. He felt a flush of embarrassment at the whole performance; oh boy, was he was gonna relive that panic attack when Sam decided the time was right. But in the meantime he had to admit he felt better already with his feet on the ground, and Sam's promise that they would drive back.

He looked up on hearing Sam's voice from the other side of the door; "Dean …"

Tumbler in hand, Dean pulled the door towards him and glanced round it. "what?"

Sam held up a hooded fleece, so bald and threadbare as to be almost transparent. "This was new last week, what the hell's happened to it?" he asked.

Dean staggered back into the wall. his heart froze as he stared in wide eyed horror at the worn fleece

The tumbler of water smashed to the floor …

xxxxx

end


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